


The Figure of my Father

by Beth_Penrose



Category: Supernatual
Genre: AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2049945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Penrose/pseuds/Beth_Penrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Dean and Sam are raised by Bobby instead of John. They grow up occasionally hunting but mostly focusing on school, sports, and just being kids. May or may not end up including a romance with the new kid, Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1988

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first posting on here so hi and please leave feedback so I can know if it's any good and whether I should keep using this site.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Sam's perspective the day they went to live with Bobby

Sam didn’t remember a lot about travelling with his dad. He could recall various hotel rooms, nights sitting on dubious king beds and bathing in the fluorescent glow of whatever was on television. He remembered his dad disappearing for days at a time, and his big brother, Dean, making him peanut butter sandwiches and burnt mac and cheese. But he never knew what his dad was doing, why he’d disappear, or why they couldn’t get a house like kids on tv shows.  
The closest thing Sam had to a home was his Uncle Bobby’s house. They’d go there a couple times every year, sometimes for the holidays, more often if there was something their dad needed to talk to Bobby about. When that happened, they usually left after a few hours and Sam’s dad always looked pleased. Sometimes he’d have a new gun, or sometimes he’d have a new place to go. The holidays were rougher. They stayed longer, which would be nice, except that Dad and Uncle Bobby always fought. They’d stand in the kitchen, each of them holding a beer, and scream at each other while Sam and Dean sat in the living room.  
This time was worse than the others. They’d only been here a day and they were already going at it. It started with Uncle Bobby noticing the bandage on Dean’s wrist. When he tried to ask about it Dean had just shrugged. But Uncle Bobby had grabbed it, making Dean flinch. When Bobby pulled off the bandage and saw the cut there, he’d gone really quiet. There was one mark, circling his wrist in an angry red line. Sam wasn’t sure how he’d gotten it. Dean had just come home with Dad one night with his arm hanging at his side, looking straight ahead like he was trying not to cry. Dad had wrapped it up without saying anything, and Sam didn’t want to make him mad by asking about it. So, like a lot of things, he let it go. But Uncle Bobby wasn’t about to ignore it, Sam could tell by the way his eyes darkened and his mouth squeezed tight. When Dad walked into the room and saw the angry look on Bobby’s face, he’d grabbed a beer and sat at the table across from them.  
“Don’t even start with me, Bobby. The boy got hurt. It happens.”  
“It happens?” Uncle Bobby’s voice was thick with the sort of anger that only came before a fight, and Sam was already gathering together his books when Dad said, without looking at either of them,  
“Dean, take your brother to the other room.”  
Dean murmured a “yes sir” and directed Sam to the living room. They settled on the couch in silence like they always did and waited for the fighting to begin. It only took a few minutes for the shouting to start, and Sam could clearly hear what was being said.  
“He was stupid! If he’d been paying attention-“ Their dad yelled, and Sam saw Dean flinch beside him, if only for a second. He rubbed his hand anxiously across his damaged wrist, looking down at his lap. It made Sam mad when their dad said stuff like that. Dean wasn’t stupid. He’d just gotten hurt.  
“He shouldn’t have been hunting in the first place!” Uncle Bobby interrupted. “He’s not even ten years old, John! What were you thinking? And who was with Sam while you two were out anyways?” Now it was Sam’s turn to feel uncomfortable, though he wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t done anything wrong. But somehow whenever his dad and Uncle Bobby fought about him he felt like it was his fault.  
“Sam was fine! He was in the hotel room, just sitting there. Besides, it’s none of your damn business how I raise my sons!”  
“It is if you bring them over to my house all broken and bandaged, and then try to play it off like nothing happened. Or even worse, you go blaming a kid when you’re the idjit who didn’t keep him safe.”  
“Then maybe I’ll stop bringing them around!” Their dad retorted and Sam exchanged worried looks with his brother. They’re dad wouldn’t really stop letting them come to Bobby’s, would he? When Bobby spoke again, his voice was quieter, but shaky, and madder than Sam had ever heard him.  
“Don’t you dare. John Winchester, don’t you dare take those boys from me, take them from the only home they have.”  
“Then tell me what I’m supposed to do, Bobby. I have to keep hunting until I can find the thing that got Mary. And it’s not like I can leave them at daycare. So you tell me exactly what I’m supposed to do.”  
It only takes a second for Bobby to answer, his voice sure as Sam had ever heard it. “Leave them with me, then.”  
“What?” Sam looked at Dean, thinking the same thing. What was Uncle Bobby talking about? Dean shook his head. He didn’t understand either.  
“Leave them here. I’ll take care of them, raise them right, like they should.”  
“Funny words, coming from an old drunk like you.”  
“True. But I’ll give them plenty to eat and a school to go to and the same bed to sleep in every night. They can make friends, all the things that kids should do. Because that’s what they are, John. They’re not soldiers, they’re kids.”  
It was quiet for several minutes after that and Sam shifted uncomfortably, rocking back and forth. He felt Dean squeeze his hand and he looked at his brother, who gave him a reassuring smile. Finally, their dad spoke, a lot quieter this time, and Sam had to strain to hear him. “Fine. You want them, fine by me.”

The next morning their dad had packed up the car to leave but this time, he was leaving on his own, and Sam and Dean were standing there to say goodbye, surrounded by early morning and the rusted out cars of Bobby’s junkyard. Dad addressed them both at the same time “You boys be good, you hear? When I come back to see you I don’t want to hear about you giving Bobby any trouble.”  
“Yes, sir,” Dean murmured, and Sam followed suit.  
“And you keep practicing with the weapons. Don’t go getting soft.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“And Dean,” Sam noticed his brother straighten a bit. “You take care of Sam, you hear me? You be sure to keep him safe.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Good. Then I’ll see you both in a couple months.” And with that he got in the car, started the engine, and drove away.


	2. 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Dean's perspective, Christmas day, three years later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this being short. As you'll come to learn- my chapters are generally short. But I post a lot of them. Please leave me feedback. And I tried my best on the motorcycle thing. I'm not really a car person.

Dean sat in front of the living room window that looked out over the scrap yard, all those ghosts of old cars, and the driveway that led to the main road. He didn’t want Sam or Bobby to know that he was watching, waiting, so he made sure to keep his focus on cleaning the already immaculate shotgun in his lap, only looking up on occasion to try to catch sight of the black Impala making its way down the winding drive. But so far there was nothing. Sam came into the room and took one look at his brother before sitting in the big arm chair across the room and opening the book he’d been carrying. “Dad’s still not here yet, huh?” He asked, not looking up. Dean sighed, amazed as always by how perceptive his little brother could be.  
“No, not yet. But he will be. It’s Christmas.”  
“Right.” Even at eight years old, Sam’s tone was skeptical, and Dean couldn’t say that he blamed him. In the three years that they had been living with Bobby their dad had only come to visit a handful of times, and never over the holidays. But still, every morning of Christmas break was spent by that window, watching for the sight of the shiny black car that meant that their dad had chosen to come see them. He’d show his dad the project he had made at school. The last project had shown him had been a vase he’d made in pottery class. His dad hadn’t looked impressed like Bobby had when he’d brought it home, he’d just made a grunting noise. This time we’d written an essay about the history of the Colt. It had gotten an A, and Dean hoped his dad would like it more than he had the vase.  
Dean glanced at the old clock standing in the corner. It was 11:30. The rest of the normally shoddy living room was dominated by a large Christmas tree that Bobby had taken the boys into the woods to cut down themselves. Christmas Eve had been spent dressing the tree in the decorations they had bought a couple of years ago. Sam had insisted on putting the angel on the top of the tree, and Dean had held the ladder for him as he leaned over dangerously to place it just right. Now the angel’s cheerful grin just made Dean angrier as he turned back to stare at the empty driveway.  
At noon Sam’s nagging had gotten to the point where Bobby insisted that Dean leave his spot by the window so that they could open presents. Bobby went first, urged on by Sam and Dean to dig into a parcel sloppily wrapped in paper decorated by bells and dancing elves. Sam had given him a picture book he’d made in school about his family. It had Bobby, Dean, and Sam drawn in on the cover. In the background was a black car, and Dean could see a face whose mouth was stuck in a straight line staring out from it. Bobby patted Sam and the back and told him it was great. He turned to Dean, his expression eager to see what Dean had made. Sam, sitting behind him, grinned widely.  
“Show him,” He urged. Dean nodded and stood up.  
“You have to follow me.” He led them out the front door and into the junk yard. He could practically feel Sam’s excitement hit his back like a wave, and he chuckled to himself. Finally, they rounded a particular pile of twisted junk metal and were confronted with the gleaming body of a 1946 Indian Chief motorcycle. Everyone had to stop and stare for a moment, they were so taken aback by the beauty of it, the dark blue body gleaming against the snow.  
Finally, it was Bobby who spoke first. “W-where did you get this, boy?” His tone was a mixture of awe and concern, as if he expected a classic car collector to be calling about a stolen bike any second now.  
Dean shrugged, trying to look casual, but his pride showed through in the grin he could hardly suppress. “Well, you mostly already had it, in pieces here and there at least. I mostly just had to put them together. It wasn’t too bad. Just took some creativity. And I dunno if it’s completely ready yet. Might need a new muffler.” Bobby wasn’t listening, though. Instead, he swung Dean up into a big bear hug, even though he was twelve years old and hard to lift.  
“You done good, son.” The words rang in Dean’s head for the rest of the day, through Christmas dinner, and as he played poker with Bobby and Sam around the kitchen table. They repeated themselves, so joyful and so proud, that it wasn’t until that night, when he lay in the dark and listened to Sam’s even breathing, that he remembered to be disappointed that his dad hadn’t come.


	3. 1994

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Sam's perspective, when John comes to visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I had really hoped to update this earlier. I really hadn't planned on GISHWHES sucking my life into a black hole, or the fact that afterwards all I would have the brain capacity for was playing Mirror's Edge. Anyways, here you go.

“Hey, Winchester!” Sam kept walking, thinking that maybe if he kept his eyes facing straight ahead, his pace even, he could be ignored. But the voice called again, louder. “Winchester!” In a last ditch effort, Sam reached for his Walkman. He was about to slip the earphones over his head when a hand grabbed around his wrist, roughly spinning him around. The voice and hand belonged to a boy a couple years older than Sam, an eighth grader that he recognized vaguely around the halls of the middle school. He was pretty sure his name was Jerad. Or Jeremy. Sam tried to smile as he faced the older kid.   
“Hey, George.”  
“My name’s Gavin, idiot.”  
“Oh, sorry.” Sam looked the older boy up and down. He was a good foot and a half taller than Sam- one of the disadvantages of skipping a grade- and mad as hell, though Sam couldn’t begin to guess why.   
“Heard your brother was caught macking with Shannon Hornsberry.” Sam let out a long sigh. Oh. Another one.   
“Might’ve been.” Sam tried to sound chill. He’d long given up on tracking the girls Dean made out with, but he couldn’t help wondering what this girl’s name connection was to Gavin.   
“She’s my step sister.”  
“Hey, if you’re mad at Dean, go tell him-”  
“No. You go tell your brother to keep his hands off her, understand?”  
“Yeah, I understand.” Sam had had this conversation before, and he’d be glad to just keep his head down and get through it.   
“Good.” The kid gave Sam a shove for good measure as he walked away. 

When he got back to the house Sam dropped his backpack in the living room. “Dean, I swear I’m gonna kick your ass,” he called. No one answered and he checked his watch. The highschool got out half an hour earlier than the middle school and Dean should be home. Unless if he was out with what’s-her-face. Sam shoved his way through the living room and into the kitchen- where he stopped in his tracks. Sitting around the kitchen table were Bobby, Dean, and… his dad. Sam breathed in sharply, wishing that he could disappear. It had been months since they’d seen John, and he wasn’t ready to do so again. Not without a warning. But now everyone was looking at him, and Sam knew it was too late to back out.   
John was the first one to speak. “Hey, Sam.”  
“Hello,” Sam responded warily. It wasn’t that he hated his dad, but he hardly knew the man. He had only seen him a dozen times or so since he was five, and it always unsettled Sam when he came to visit, knowing that they should share some sort of bond, but that to Sam he was hardly more than another hunter. He wondered if they were supposed to do something, like a handshake or a manly hug or something. But John demanded neither, thank god.   
“I was in the area and I know it’s been a while since I stopped by-”  
“It’s been eight months.”  
“Yeah, anyways, I thought I’d stop and say hello, see my sons.”  
“Dad’s in the middle of a hunt,” Dean added. His expression was one of barely controlled anger, and Sam could guess why.   
“Don’t start with me,” Bobby warned. “The answer is no. You’re not going.”  
“Why the hell not? We can go on the hunt, be done in a couple of days, be back before Saturday’s game. Maybe Dad can even stay for this one.” Dean’s face brightened on the last sentence, and he cut a glance at John, whose expression remained impassive.  
“You don’t know that. You could come back in five days, or five weeks, or…” Bobby’s voice trailed off, but Sam knew what he was thinking, that every time Dean went on a hunt there was the possibility that he wouldn’t come back at all. “Besides, what about school? You can’t just miss half a week for some stupid hunt.”  
“It’s not a stupid hunt. It’s a freaking werewolf.”  
“I don’t care if it’s Satan himself, you’re not going, and that’s final.”  
“Who says you get to decide anyways?” Dean retorted. His voice had a razor’s edge to it, and Sam flinched at what he knew his brother was about to say. “You’re not my dad.”  
To his eternal credit Bobby didn’t as much as grimace at the carelessly uttered accusation. “I’m dad enough to ground your sorry ass if you don’t shut up about it.”  
Dean opened his mouth, presumably to protest, but John cut him off. “Best to listen to Bobby, Dean. I’m sure he knows what’s best. And we’ll see about that game, okay?” Dean looked disaapointed, but nodded in agreement.   
John took care of the werewolf in only two days, but he still wasn’t there for Dean’s game. Sam knew he’d done it on purpose, because when he showed up a month later to prepare for a hunt, Bobby didn’t argue with Dean, he just let him go.


End file.
